Bed and Breakfast
by Mr.Nobody9999
Summary: A Ventrue pop starlet finds herself in a jam. Based on the pen and paper game, not the PC game.


I sing the last few notes of "Sugar Rush" while I dance wildly on stage. Thousands of fans, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, all cheer me on. It's because of my purple hair and my skimpy dress and my nice tits. I know what I am. I know better than they do. In fact, I can recite my lineage all the way back to Lord Ventrue himself. I am Candy Smith (real name Alexandria Mendelbaum), childe of Mark Anderson, childe of Neville Crowley, childe of Elise Comte, childe of Rozaria Dietrevski, childe of Biv Larsen, childe of Jan Pieterzoon, childe of Hardestadt the Younger, childe of Hardestadt the Elder, childe of Mithras, childe of Ventrue. It's a real killer lineup of grandsires, except for maybe my sire and the first few, the harpies tell me.

I take a bow, letting the boys get a good look at my cleavage before the lights go out and I go to my dressing room. There, a dark-skinned man in a suit waits in my chair.

"You're the dealer, right?" I ask dryly.

"People have called me a dealer."

"You got the powder?"

"That depends on how much you want."

"I don't know. I don't really have much money on hand. There any other way we can settle this debt." I pout.

"I don't know, maybe." He gets up and walks over to me. The filthy thug puts his arms around me and grabs at my cold, dead ass. He doesn't seem to upset at the still coldness of my flesh. I bet he's had his share of near dead junkies. I let him back me up to the door, which I lock. The dealer lands a big sloppy kiss on my lips.

"How bad do you want it?" he asks.

I don't waste any more time. I bite him, going for the jugular vein. I take in his blood. It has a little bit of a whiskey aftertaste. Apparently, this one doesn't get high on his own supply. I don't kill him. I'm not a Gangrel. I do take enough blood to where he needs immediate medical attention. I lick the wound shut and then call my guard to care of the vessel. Derek is a beast of a man, intimidating in his black security uniform.

"This fan found his way into my room and fainted. Please get him some help."

"Christ, not again." Derek drags out the dealer.

I'm not the only musician with crazy fans.

I change out of my stage outfit and call Leon, one of my ghouls.

"Ready to get in the trunk, mistress?" He's a good little doll. Handsome, too.

"If I must. I'll be glad when we're back in Manhattan tomorrow night. I've had about enough of that god-forsaken trunk."

"I'm afraid we have to do it one more night, mistress."

"I suppose."

I pull the trunk out from under my bed. It's covered with stickers from every major city in the United States, as well as Tokyo and London. I open it up and crawl inside, contorting my limbs into an uncomfortable lying position. It's going to be another long day on the road.

I have another daymare. It's the one where cooking dinner with my mom. I'm a little girl, and while the lasagna bakes, I look at the sunset through the kitchen window. She says that I don't have to sing anymore if I don't want to. I assure her that I do. I lie. The lie slings me through the rest of my life. I'm a cheerleader in high school. I'm getting my cherry popped at the drive in theater by some guy that I hate. I'm auditioning for Surge Records. I'm shooting the video. I'm riding the elevator to meet Mark, who I think is some kind of super lawyer that can free me from my contract from Surge Records. He is.

I wake up in the total blackness of the trunk. I can't hear the familiar sounds of trafic and people that I can hear outside my apartment in Manhattan. I force the trunk open, and I find myself in a little wooden room. There's wallpaper printed with cowboys riding ponies. The curtains are made out of cheap material printed with flowers. I can hear crickets. If I was still alive, my heart would be pounding hard. If I was alive, I wouldn't be afraid to be out in the country.

"Leon!" I cry, almost afraid to make noise.

I hear someone coming up the stairs. I get out of my trunk and shut it. I look around for a weapon and find a silver letter opener on a dressing table. The door opens, and I calm down a bit when I see Leon.

"Leon, where the fuck am I?" I ask, pocketing the letter opener.

"It's a town called Taftville. We're in Ohio, about an hour's drive from Cincinatti."

"Why?"

"There's something wrong with the bus. The engine's completely useless. The mechanic's waiting on parts."

"Leon, you've got to get me out of here. I'll die."

"It's country, but it's not that bad."

If I'm right, the media is waiting for me to come out of the b and b. If anybody knows I'm here, my next fashion accessory is going to be an urn. "God damn it, Leon. If you don't find a way to get me out of here tonight, so help me God..."

"Alright! Alright. Anything for you, Candy. I'll see about renting a car."

"You'll see about buying one." I give Leon one of my credit cards. The one with no spending limit furnished by Coca-Cola. My name carries a lot of weight. "I don't want you to have to come back here."

"It's really kind of a nice place," he says.

"Bullshit. Just get the car, and we'll get out of here."

"Okay." Leon exits.

I put on my pink rimmed sunglasses and head down the stairs. There's a kindly elderly couple sitting in a den. "We were wondering when you would come down," the old man says.

"Do you want to talk to the news?" the old woman asks.

"I most certainly do not," I say, trying to keep my composure.

The paparazzi doesn't care what I want. One of them, a boy who couldn't be older than nineteen, bursts in through the back door and snaps a picture. I can feel the beast in there. It wants to claw its way out and tackle the paparazzo and bite him right in his fucking heart, but if I did that the Masquerade would be forfeit. As a famous Ventrue, I have a duty to uphold the Masquerade at any cost, even my own life. I breathe in air that I don't need; I breathe it out. The little trick helps keep me from having a homicidal panic attack.

"Call the cops," I command the old people. "Get these people out of here."

I turn on the Presence for the old man. He stares at my majestic superstar features right before he gladly complies. He trades some harsh words with the dispatcher about privacy invasion and the like. It isn't long before I hear sirens and a megaphone yelling for the media circus to clear out. I already know that the reporters and papparazzi are going to argue about their right to be there. Stupid freedom of the press. At least, maybe it'll keep the werewolves at bay for a while. It might even provide a good enough distraction for me to escape, if everything goes according to plan.

I turn to the old man again. He's still struck by my otherworldly beauty. "Do you guys own any guns?"

"What's your interest in guns?" the old woman asks

"It's a hobby," I lie. I detest guns. That's why I have bodyguards.

"I own a few shotguns and a couple revolvers," the old man drones.

"I was wondering if I could buy one off of you."

"Why, sure."

The old man takes me to his den. There are animal head plaques and a bookcase filled with Tom Clancy and John Grisham. Most importantly, there's a metal locker that hold's the old man's guns. He unlocks it and shows me his collection, telling me long anecdotes about he came to own each gun. I pick up a small revolver, feeling the weight of the metal in my hand.

"How much for this one?" I ask. I look deep into the old guy's sad sunken eyes.

"I paid twenty bucks for that fireiron back in the sixties," the man says thoughtlessly, "I couldn't charge you any more for it than that."

I palm the old man a hundred dollar bill and tell him to keep the change.

I go back upstairs to my room and peek out of the curtained window. The couple's yard is illuminated by flashing police lights. News anchors in business clothes are arguing with the police. Cameras are rolling. I rush downstairs.

"Do you think we could watch some TV?" I ask the old woman.

"Certainly, sweety. What do you want to watch? The MTV?"

"Local news would be fine," I say.

The elderly couple has a huge black and white TV that might be from the sixties. The old woman turns it on and manipulates the dials to summon an image of her own front yard. A handsome woman is centered on the screen telling about how I'm hiding in the bed and breakfast. Everybody around knows that I'm here. I might as well go out and talk to them.

"I think I'm going out," I say.

"But you just started watching," the old woman offers.

"It's about time I greeted my fans."

I open up the front door and step out of the house. They greet me with cheers. The press run forward like berserkers.

"What are you doing here in Taftville?" the NBC affiliate anchorwoman asks me, astounded.

"Car trouble. But it is a nice little town."

"Have you started recording your new album?" the CBS afiliate asks after a moment of hesitation.

I laugh. "Darling, I haven't even thought about my next album yet. Give me a year, maybe."

I look for the ABC afiliate. "Ah, there you are!" she exclaims. "Are you seeing anyone."

I laugh again. The laugh is kind of a trademark. "I'm seeing a lot of people? Why? Are you intrested?" The news woman turns red in the face and backs down. It's so cute when they get embarrassed.

I move into the crowd of local fans I let them touch me. Most of the girls just take video of me with their cell phones. Men grope at my tits and ass, and I don't care. This is a survival measure. A ten foot tall werewolf isn't going to rip through the media circus and all my fans just to get to me. This is what I think until some maniac sticks a knife between my ribs. This guy is stronger than he has any right to be. Most people wouldn't be able to get a knife into me.

"I love you!" he screams before he runs away and is taken down by the police.

In my past dealings with the Sabbat, I've been shot. I have to do my best to play dying. I touch a hand to my wound, which hurts only minimally and bring back my hand, shocked at the blood. I fall back against the soft ground, and my fans step away from me. I use my knowledge of dance to spasm on the ground while I focus on not healing the wound. I feel as everything is going as planned when the crowd cries out in shock. They use those fancy phones to call 911, some of them. Others stand around, terrified that they're going to be here to witness my death. I died a long time ago.

Some big men in uniform hoist me up onto a gurney and roll me towards an ambulance. They take my gun but leave the letter opener. The guy that stabbed me is sitting up against a cop car, hands behind his back. He's five foot something and filthy, wearing a worn letterman jacket and a beard. He smiles at me as they put me into the ambulance.

This is where it gets tricky. I'm surrounded by all kinds of life-sustaining, life-sensing equipment, and I have to make the paramedics believe that I'm still alive. I force blood into my heart, making it beat fast. I keep jerking around. They put a tube in my arm, and a few minutes later, I calm down. I slow my heartbeat. I start asking questions. The paramedics seem relieved. They tear my shirt off to get a better look at the wound, though part of me believes that part of the reason they do this is to get a better look at my famous anatomy. That's when I start to think I'm going to make it. And then the whole van shakes.

"What's going on?" one of the paramedics asks the driver, concerned.

"I don't know! I hit a bear or something!" the driver screams.

I hear something on the roof of the ambulance when the driver stops. There's a piercing, wrenching sound that I only hear on TV, when firemen use the jaws of life to save somebody from a car crash. A big, hairy, index finger claw stabs through the roof of the ambulance and begins to tear away the metal. I pull the tube out of my arm and jump up from the gurney. I back myself against the ambulance's back door. The paramedics look at me as if to say "what the fuck?" as my wound heals. I would be concerned about the Masquerade, but I know what's about to happen, and I know it's not going to matter. The werewolf's arm comes down through the widened hole to take one of the hunky paramedics. There is the disgusting sound of raw meat being torn apart and blood splashes down into the ambulance. The other paramedic screams bloody murder and the driver comes back inot the back to see what's going on. The werewolf bursts through the top of the van and hangs up sidedown, revealing the top half of his monstrous body, covered in grayish black fur. It grabs the other paramedic and the driver and returns to the top of the van. I take the cue to escape. I burst through the back of the ambulance, and I find myself on a wooded country road. I see the cops did there job by keeping the flunkies away. A short distance up the road, maybe two hundred hards, I see a cop car with the headlights still on and two dead cops lying outside, throats torn out. I run for it. I've had my share of run-ins with the cops, I know they keep shotguns in the back seats. Might come in handy. I dash for the vehicle. I make it about half way before I'm toppled by a sudden, blunt force.

I throw the part-eaten corpse of the driver off of me and turn to see the werewolf bounding towards me. I feel the blood sweat form on my cold skin as I run towards the corpse of one of the policemen. Maybe his gun will help. I fumble with the cop's belt as the rabid lupine comes bounding towards me. I pull the gun from the cop's belt and point it at the general direction of the werewolf. I pull the trigger and pop off shots until the gun is empty. Most of the shots miss my assailant entirely, hitting the asphalt or the ambulance.

The werewolf rushes forth and seizes me by the waist. It bares its fangs, about to bite my head off and end my existence. I lose my composure to the Beast. I take out the letter opener and tear wildly at the thing's neck. It's bleeding. I can do this. I'll kill this motherfucker. He think's he's the big bad wolf? Let's see how he likes my bite. I bite his throat over and over again, taking in a little werewolf blood with each bite. He must sell drugs or pimp out women or take bets or something because his blood is fucking delicious. I want more. I stab the letter opener into where I think a major artery should be and drink deeply. The werewolf shakes the earth when he roars in pain and throws me against the side of the cop car. I get a rush to my head a thousand times better than I remember cocaine used to be.

"Oh, fuck," I actually mutter aloud. I could go for the shotgun now that I'm so near the cop car, but I feel like I'm the king of the world. I see the blood pouring out of the werewolf's throat as it whimpers and fumbles with its big paws to remove the tiny knife. I can do this. I run at the monster, faster than I've ever run before and pounce on him.

He just swats me away, and I slide across the cold asphalt. I scramble to my feet and go after the lupine again. This time, I attack him low. It swats at the air as I throw my arms around its knee and pull. It hits the ground and I drag him towards the ambulance. I open the driver's side door and shove his head in.

The lupine tries to fight back, but I punch him in the nose. That's what you're supposed to do to stupid dogs, right? I slam his head in the door over and over again, opening new wounds ont the side of his skull. I can taste his potent vitae in the air as I crash the metal edge of the door into his cheek repeatedly, warping the edge of the door.

With the last few hits, I can feel my beast going back to sleep. I hope to God that I knocked the wolfman out or something as I make my way back to the cop car. That shotgun is seeming a lot more attractive. I run back towards the police cruiser, but my legs have a lot less hustle than they did when I was all souped up on wolf blood. I hear wolfie tear the door off of the ambulance and I duck, realizing that he just loves to throw stuff. I duck and the heavy, warped door whirls over my head like a giant metal frisby, messing up my purple hair. The door flies on to tear through the cop car in a metal and glass cacaphony that eliminates my last chance at escape.

I turn to face my adversary. The side of his face is all fucked up and bloody, but I can see it healing. Now the werewolf is coming at me all slow. I swear to god he's smiling. He's going to enjoy tearing me limb from limb. I curl up in the fetal position. I hear a powerful thud and the werewolf crying out again.

"Get in the car!" commands a familiar voice. It's Leon.

He has a large sport utility vehicle with black tinted windows. That'll work. I get in as fast as I can. "Drive!" I cry.

The wheels screech as Leon throws the behemoth of a vehicle into drive. I can hear the werewolf's claws skitter down the country highway as he chases after us. We lose him when we join interstate traffic.

"Did you bring my trunk?" I ask.

"No, but there's a compartment in the back that should work."

"Thanks, Leon." I kiss my handsome ghoul on the cheek and he blushes. I left a bloody print.

Two nights later, I'm back in my penthouse reading the _Cincinnati Herald. _There's something in there about a mysterious car crash that left me missing. I get a call on my cell phone. It's Mark, my sire and the first link on my chain to Ventrue.

"What's up?" I answer. Mark never liked me.

"I'd like to meet with you in my office to talk about your new identity, Alexandria." He should have known that I prefer Candy.

I have Leon take me to the door of Leon's building and tell him to wait for me to call him. My hair is covered by a fedora and I'm wearing a conservative jacket. The last thing I need is a headline about a famous pop star returned from the dead.

I take the elevator up to Mark's office and step out. Mark is sitting there in his Jimmy Hendrix t-shirt running his fingers through the long hairs on his head.

"What's going on, baby?" he asks insincerely.

He isn't alone in his office. There's a dark skinned middle-eastern woman dressed in skin tight leather clothes. She has her hands behind her back.

"I wasn't expecting you to make it back," Mark says.


End file.
